


Hankcon K/inktober 2019

by inkysparks



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Blue Blood, First Kiss, Lace, Lingerie, M/M, Morning Cuddles, Post-Revolution, chicken feed hug, implied PTSD, minor injury
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-09 06:30:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 3,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20849030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkysparks/pseuds/inkysparks
Summary: These are my little Hankcon k/inktober blurbs for this year! They're going to be very short but I'm also attempting to do a doodle with each one, so we'll see how it all goes. Some might be sexy, some not so much, rating will change as needed. No need to read them in any particular order as they're not related/chronological, their only connection is Hankcon. Come yell at me on twitter @inkysparks.





	1. First Kiss

The snow around them was gentle, and muted all sound into a distant fuzz. The streets, still empty, the birds cawing uncertainly in the pale light of dawn. Hank’s heartbeat. Connor could hear it, even from here.

There was a moment that stretched between them, silent and pensive; a fraction of a second, to a human less than a blink, to Connor a small eternity. Then the corner of Hank’s mouth tipped warmly upwards, and before Connor knew it, he was mirroring the expression, striding forward, his thirium pump beating hard in his chassis.

Everything felt jagged. Fear a sharp thing, residual from before, and a new one now. They’d won – maybe, in a way – they’d survived, and the world was _different,_ Hank was different, and the tentative friendship they’d forged felt somehow more fragile than ever.

Connor stopped, another beat breaking the moment into shards, as close as he dared. Another pause.

Then Hank reached for him, his hand warm and immediate at the back of Connor’s neck, dragging him in before he could process what was happening, crushing him into a broad chest and a scent that was becoming familiar and dear.

Connor forgot to simulate his breathing.

He forgot everything. The world, white and poorly defined, fuzzed away entirely. There was only a strong, fast heartbeat that glowed with warmth and wrapped him in it, the tickle of hair on his cheek, deep breaths moving through Hank’s lungs, the crushing force of his relief around his shoulders.

Connor had never done this before. He half expected it to hurt, but instead of pain or discomfort there was a quiet certainty that it was over, that they were safe, that _Hank_ was safe, that hurt had no right to exist anymore.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Hank breathed directly into his ear, still gently cupping the back of Connor’s head, fingers combing into the short hair. There was emotion in his voice, mirroring the knot in Connor’s chest, barely hidden under a layer that was trying and failing to be casual.

Snow began to fall. Connor’s face where it was exposed to the wind felt cold, which meant Hank could feel it too. He pulled away a fraction, reluctantly, but only enough to look at his face, intending to ask about getting him a scarf so they could continue this in peace. Only his processors caught on Hank’s lips this close to his, the warmth of his breath and his gaze, clear and blue but somehow the warmest thing Connor’s ever felt. There were no more software instability messages, but if there had been – this feeling, surely, would be a significant one.

He wasn’t sure who moved first this time. He was only sure that nothing had ever felt better than meeting halfway, or better than Hank’s hands drifting to cup his jaw, keeping him close, hot, chapped lips suddenly moving gently against his, a question he was more than happy to answer. He didn’t know how to do hugging correctly, let alone this.

But if Hank’s happy hum, and the way he dragged him closer were any indication, he was doing alright for his first try.


	2. Thirium

When Connor had first come to live with him, Hank had resigned himself to experiencing roughly two heart attacks a day.

First it had been little things. Connor standing stock-still in the hallway at night when he didn’t know what to do with himself. Connor slipping on the ice for the first time when winter came and faceplanting into a thankfully soft mound of snow.

Then it had been things that made his heart hurt, like the sound Connor made his first time coming out of a nightmare – because that’s what it was, Hank insists, and not a ‘glitch during stasis’ or whatever the little asshole wanted to call it. The first time he’d had what Hank would’ve categorized as a flashback, despite his insistence that everything was fine. The first time Hank watched his LED spin red for seemingly not reason at all, his stress levels spiking over breakfast.

Nothing quite prepared him for finding his house oddly quiet for the first time in months, or for nearly tripping over Connor in the dark kitchen.

“Jesus, fuck,” Hank snapped. “What the hell are you doing down here?”

There was no answer, just a hitched sound that could’ve been either pain or fear or both, and Hank’s heart immediately froze in his chest. He scrambled for the light switch, paled when he saw the scene before him, even if he didn’t quite understand it.

Connor was sitting on the floor, curled into himself, face hidden in his arms. There was a thirium stain on the floor, not large, but enough to make Hank stop breathing.

“What happened? Connor?” Hank dropped gracelessly to his knees and placed a hand on Connor’s shoulder, forgetting whatever manufactured distance he’d been trying to keep between them, every soft feeling he’d had rising sharply to the surface. “Honey, did you hurt yourself?” He wasn’t sure what he was picturing, but the injuries his imagination conjured were getting increasingly painful and gruesome. Worse, Connor seemed to shrink, flinched from Hank’s touch.

Hank squeezed his arm, heart stuttering in his chest. “Talk to me. Dammit, Connor – let me see.”

Slowly, breath by painful breath, Connor uncurled. His LED was bright red at his temple, expression lost. Hank searched him desperately for signs of damage, feeling face, his arms, then his hands, where he finally found the source of the problem in the form of a fairly deep gash going across the fleshy part of his palm. His fingers were blue where he’d tried to stop the bleeding.

Hank sighed, examining it gently, thumb drifting over Connor’s knuckles. “Let’s get this bandaged up,” Hank said quietly. “That okay, sweetheart?”

Connor twitched, gave him an uncertain look. “Hank?”

Hank froze. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever heard Connor use that tone with him, soft and – broken. There was something more going on, but was afraid to ask what it was, so he just said, “Yeah, Con. You scared the shit out of me.”

Connor shifted, staring down at his hand, moving like he was going to hide it. Hank held him firm. “Hey. Come on. It’s alright, just a scratch, right? We can get this fixed easy. I think I still have that nanotape stuff you showed me.”

“I – it was an accident.”

“I know,” Hank said gently. “It must’ve scared you.”

“No, it’s not – it’s not that. I just-” He choked on the words, and Hank broke, dragged him into his arms, half into his lap, heedless of the thirium he was getting on both of them. Connor was running cooler than normal, stiff with tension. It took him a while to start breathing again, to relax into Hank’s embrace, weight sinking into his chest.

“Accidents happen. It’s okay,” Hank said, cupping his cheek and squeezing him close, because whatever was going on in his head, sometimes what Connor really needed to feel better was a good, firm hug. “I was just worried you were seriously hurt.”

Connor shivered, something inside of him unlocking. “I was worried you wouldn’t want to touch me.”

Hank squeezed him tighter, heart aching. “Seems silly now, doesn’t it?”

Connor sniffed dryly. “I’m a mess.”

“Yeah, well,” Hank said tiredly. “We’re all a bit of a mess. Guess you’re in good company.”

He tried not to focus on how good it was to just hold Connor, just for a little bit, longer than he was used to. The comfort, he thought, went both ways.


	3. Fall/Lace

The best days, Hank mused, were the days you felt warm, even with the chill outside and rain beating steadily against the windowpane. The leaves outside had long since fallen, padding the ground with a layer of musty and decaying detritus, leaving a familiar, spicy autumn smell in the air. The bedroom was dim, sunlight filtered through a thick blanket of clouds, leaving everything feeling cool and gray and a little fuzzy around the edges. The temperature outside read a chilly forty-two degrees. He was good though. Connor was dozing in his arms and emanating a slow, gentle heat, back fitting neatly against Hank’s chest and stomach, the sheets around them sleep-warm and smelling faintly of soap.

Hank pressed his lips to the back of his neck, and Connor stirred, humming as he came out of stasis.

“Hello, handsome,” he teased, soft and sleepy, turning a little to give Hank one of those warm, lopsided smiles.

“Morning, honey,” Hank muttered against his skin, trailing a hand down his smooth waist, under the lacy fabric of the nightshirt he’d been so shy about putting on last night. It was a delicate, silky thing, rumpled from sleep, bunched around his waist. The way it felt against Hank’s skin was doing – interesting things to his heart rate. And the way Connor looked in it – “You’re so pretty.” He kissed Connor’s shoulder, nosed into his hair. Connor smelled sweet and neutral, clean and a little stormy. “This suits you,” he added, tugging gently on the edge and sliding his hand down Connor’s thigh, curling himself closer, playing with the fabric.

There was a smile in his voice when he said, “Thank you, Hank. I’m glad it’s to your liking.”

He’d been so hesitant about it last night. Hank could’ve told him he’d look equally gorgeous in a potato sack, but mostly he’d been too overwhelmed to say much at all. It wasn’t just that he looked perfect and soft and edible, like a present for Hank to unwrap. It was the pleased little smile on his face, the joy of him finding his quirks and preferences and trying new things and settling on something he liked. And later, the feeling of his hands and his skin, all the smoothness of him wrapped in this little nightie, soft and a little scratchy all at once, sliding against Hank as they made love.

Connor shifted against him with a sound not unlike a purr. Arched rather deliberately against Hank’s suddenly aching cock where it was pressed to his ass.

“Easy,” Hank breathed into his hair. “Easy, love.”

Connor made a small, contented noise. “You should… do something about your arousal.”

Hank laughed quietly against his nape. “Something?”

Connor wiggled closer meaningfully, right into Hank’s tight embrace. And Hank decided that it was a good day for staying in.


	4. Freckles

“Hank, what are you doing?”

Hank was in love, is what he was.

There was a lot to love _about_ Connor, although every day it felt like he found something different to appreciate. His sweet, goofy smile was high on the list. So were his hands, gentle and nimble, the soft press of them, the grace of his movements.

Today, though, it was his freckles. They dotted his skin like constellations, dark and pretty against the ivory of his skin, and Hank absolutely could not keep his hands – or his mouth – off them. There was nothing nicer, he mused, than holding a sleep-warm Connor in his arms and pressing lingering, damp kisses to the ones on his shoulder.

He was quickly memorizing where they all were. The ones on the back of his neck were his favorite, because he could surprise Connor by kissing them while he was in the kitchen, or in the living room doing something entirely innocent. The ones on his face were equally lovely for the same reasons. There were a few low on his belly, mapping a trail for Hank to follow, and the one on his inner thigh – especially enticing, and Connor made the best sounds when Hank pressed his tongue and his lips there.

Connor shifted with a small, low groan. “Hank.”

Hank curled closer to his back, feeling the soft give of his synthetic flesh, squeezing him and pressing his lips to the little marks, the imperfections artfully placed. Like splashes of paint. Then smoothed his thumb over a mole on Connor’s hip. “You’re so pretty.”

Connor laughed softly. It turned into a bitten-off sigh when Hank dug his fingers into his soft thigh and slipped a hand between his legs.

“I mean it,” Hank muttered, squeezing him gently and nipping a spot on his neck. “You’re perfect.”

Connor stiffened slightly. “I know,” he said, a little dejected. “I-“

“You’re lovely,” Hank told him firmly. “For me. Just for me.” Not just because of the way he was made, but because of what he became. “You’re still a goofy-looking asshole.” He punctuated the point with a kiss to the shell of Connor’s ear. “But mine, aren’t you?”

Connor relaxed in his arms as Hank dragged him close. He sighed, soft and dreamy, pressing back against Hank, and Hank pressed his face into his warm skin again, rocking lightly against him so he wouldn’t forget. The quiet, pleased, ‘yours’ a stamp on his soul.


	5. Cozy

“Does it still hurt?”

Connor shifted deeper into Hank’s arms. Winced softly, then shook his head. “No, not – not much.” It was mostly true. He was – warm, the ache in his chest dissipating slowly, but repairs always left him out of sorts for a few hours, sometimes longer. They didn’t usually start out painful – the techs most often turned his sensors down or even off for the most invasive procedures - but having someone digging around inside of him for long enough was almost guaranteed to make him ache afterwards. He didn’t like to move much, then. Preferred to stay still and indoors, somewhere quiet and good.

It didn’t help that the day had been particularly cold and rainy, and his systems had struggled to keep him warm. By the time Hank had come to pick him up, he’d barely been able to stay on his feet. Shivering like a leaf. He’d sunk into Hank’s chest, into his smell and his cologne, and Hank had to nearly carry him to the car. He’d spent the ride home shaking and trying to keep down the little groan of pain that kept trying to work its way out of him. He was sore all over, which made sense considering the tech’s hands had been in his chest cavity not very long ago.

Hank tugged the blanket over them both, tucking it carefully around Connor’s shoulders. His lap… was comfortable. His legs and his belly were soft, and when he held Connor, heat radiated off him in waves. The rain outside felt distant, only served to make him warmer in his gentle grip. The pain continued to fade. Hank had put on some Jazz, and the living room had never felt more like home. More like _him_.

“I hate it when you get hurt,” Hank said gruffly. “Makes me feel useless.”

“No,” Connor groaned. “Not useless. You’re the best thing for me right now.”

Hank’s fingers combed through his hair. “If you say so.”

Connor nodded. Closed his eyes. “Yes. It’s good here. Quiet. Cozy. Blanket’s soft, and,” Connor yawned, “you’re soft. Feels real nice.”

A soft chuckle shook Hank’s frame. But his hands remained careful and gentle, and made the world fuzz and fade a little into a soothing kind of grayness.


	6. Winter/Hands

Connor looked up, staring at the scraggly treeline in front of them. There was a cool, wind stirring up the powdery snow. It made the dry branches crackle softly, loud in the feather-white winter quiet.

Hank was next to him, lashes low, a small smile curling his soft lips. Connor stared at him, maybe too long. He always found himself staring too long these days.

The software instabilities have been piling up. Every day since his deviancy, he’s found new things to feel, to want. Hank was only one of them. But he was one, and – an important one. His kindness, Connor thought, is why he was here after all, still around, and more different than ever.

“What’s on your mind?”

Connor turned to face him. Offered a hesitant smile. “Nothing of importance, Lieutenant.”

Hank grunted. “Yeah, well. I took you out here to relax, not to think. You ever stop spinning away in that head of yours?”

Connor tilted his head. “No.”

Hank snorted, shook his head. “Thought not.”

Connor turned back to look at the trees. He could tell why Hank took him here, yes – the park in winter, and even sitting in the cool snow – there was something serene about it that overrode his fears. Or – mostly overrode them. There were still vestiges of memories with Amanda and the Zen garden, occasionally cropping up in glitched-out moments that stole his breath and made him feel a cracking, snapping sort of cold in his fingertips and in the center of his chest.

“Hey. You alright?” Hank asked, evidently seeing something in his face that warranted the concern in his tone.

And before Connor got a chance to respond, a warm, heavy hand closed over his.

His world came to a screeching halt, everything hyperfocused on – hand, Hank’s hand, large and callused and squeezing his gently, thumb rubbing against the side of Connor’s pinky, sparking sharp sensation along it.

He made a little noise. “Yes. Yes, quite alright.”

“You know you can talk to me, right?” He still wasn’t letting go. Connor knew Hank meant it in a friendly way, that he was trying to offer comfort in his own particular, human way. He didn’t realize what he was doing to Connor’s internals. He didn’t know it felt – like that to him.

“I know,” he managed to say finally. Then, very hesitantly, he turned his hand over, palm up, unsure what he was expecting.

Hank laced their fingers together and squeezed.

And Connor abruptly felt that everything would be alright.


	7. Breakfast

The light filtering in through the window was soft, dawn just about breaking, wind smelling of leaves and rain. Hank yawned. It was too early to be up, really, but he’d always liked the hours before the world was fully awake. They were quiet and pensive, everything stretching slowly like a cat in a shaft of warm sunlight. They were the moments he was most alone, but that wasn’t always a bad thing. At least not lately.

Still, the room seemed to warm when Connor entered the kitchen.

He wrapped his arms around Hank from behind, pressed a cheek to his back.

Hank smiled. Connor always took a while to fully come out of stasis. But he liked this too, pressing himself against Hank, still half asleep while Hank made breakfast, flipping a sizzling pancake on the skillet. It was perfectly round, golden brown. One of Hank’s finely honed skills.

It was different with company. Different with Connor. Not as quiet, not as alone. There were two mugs on his counter, a pot of coffee, a pouch of thirium. Hands pressing into his chest to hold him close, the soft hum of Connor’s steady breathing behind him.

“I love you,” Connor mumbled into his back. The first thing he said every morning. Like it was a new realization and a promise all at once. Like it was a love letter, or one of the post-it notes on Hank’s mirror. It never failed to make him feel… whole.


	8. Partners

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by a conversation on twitter. Story will come later since I was too busy to write today.


End file.
